


The Last King of Stormwind

by ausmac



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-03-19 05:39:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13697982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ausmac/pseuds/ausmac
Summary: I posted parts of this story earlier but was unhappy with aspects of it and the direction it seemed to be going, so I withdrew it to re-edit and work on it (sorry about that).  It is almost finished now, so I am reposting the earlier parts.  It won't be removed again, so its finish it or be damned! (((:Note:  Although I have tagged it "chose not to issue warnings"  I will warn this much - it includes abuse, both physical and sexual, and various character deaths of one sort of another.It is an alternate history based on the idea that Garrosh Hellscream managed to survive through Pandaria and defeated the Alliance, becoming Overlord of Azeroth.  At the same time he takes Varian and Anduin Wrynn as his slaves and things get interesting from there.





	1. Year 1:  The End of Things, the Start of Things

The King of Stormwind and his son are dragged in to where Garrosh sits on his throne and sent to their knees.  Not that Varian Wrynn stays down there for very long.  Even bloodied and bruised with a dozen wounds, still he flings himself upright and fights bare-handed against the Orcs that try to restrain him.  He is nothing, Garrosh thinks, if not predictable.

Even his relatively tiny son is putting up a fight.  Although he bears his own wounds and staggers on an obviously damaged leg, still he pours healing on his father in a glowing stream.  And Garrosh recognises that if the King of Stormwind has one weakness even greater than his wounds, it is standing behind him unbalanced but determined, using his Holy power to protect his sire.

He flicks a finger at one of his waiting Kor’kron guards.  “Subdue the Priest,” he signs, using his own personal signal system.  The Kor'kron reaches out with his pike, snares the Prince around the throat and pulls him backwards.  The healing abruptly stops when Anduin Wrynn is knocked out with one quick blow;  Varian turns, enraged, and Garrosh finally speaks.

“One more move and he dies.”  The Kor’kron holds the boy with a dagger to his throat, and Varian freezes.  “Your choice.”

The King stands rigidly still, his eyes fixed on his son as the guards close in on him.  Garrosh can appreciate his anguish, if not share it.  He values little above his own life.  Except the Horde, and power and what it might gain him.  He stands and walks slowly forward, stops within striking range of the enraged human, and studies him.  He’s a big man, as large as a regular Orc though not as heavy.  Garrosh walks around him, fascinated despite everything at being this near to his greatest foe, at being able to study him so closely.  He is tense, Garrosh can see it in the ripple of muscle, the sheen of sweat on the pale human skin.   “This is how it will be,” he says softly, watching the dark head turn to observe him.  “You will obey any command I give you, you will control your natural desire to strike at me.  Nod if you understand.”

Varian doesn’t move and Garrosh lifts one hand towards where the Prince is held, and Varian’s eyes widen.  “Don’t presume I won’t do what I threaten.”

“Yes.”  The word is strangled, ground out and loaded with fury, and the dark eyes that stare at him are equally enraged.  He smiles and sees the rage deprive the King of control, as he spits and curses.  “Pig!”

Garrosh turns to the watchful Malkorok.  “Give me your whip.”  The big Orc grins and takes the whip from his belt, hands it to his Warchief.  “Strip him.”  He watches as the struggling human is stripped of armour and padding, finally standing naked and sweating in the middle of the room.  Garrosh gathers the braided whip strands in his hand, combing them through his fingers.  “You will stand there and take punishment.  You will not move, and if you curse me again or resist, every missed stroke will be laid on your son’s back until its cut to the bone.   I would punish any member of the Horde who abused or challenged me, and they would stand and take it for their honour’s sake.  Let us see if Stormwind’s King can do any less.”

Garrosh lets the whip lashes drop, flicks his arm back and slashes it up and level and across Varian’s back.  He doesn’t pull the strike and it slices into the pale skin, instantly drawing blood.  Varian hisses but holds himself steady as the whip hits him again, the tips curling around on the soft skin beneath his arm.  Garrosh sees his hands clench but Varian makes no sound beyond an indrawn breath.  He flips the whip back and strikes again, matching the first blow on the other side of the human’s body. There is a rhythm to it, to the withdraw, flick and strike, and he lays the patterns across the broad back evenly, until no part of the skin is unflayed.  And still the man makes few sounds, though his body vibrates in pain.

He stops at twenty strikes, tosses the bloodied whip back to Malkorok, and steps closer to Varian, runs one finger across the bloodied back.  Varian hisses, eyes narrowed and damp, as Garrosh wipes the King of Stormwind’s blood across his own cheeks. That actions needs no words and he can already smell that blood, will smell it until it dries and fades.  He turns to see that the Prince has recovered and has been watching his father’s punishment in anguished silence.  “Heal him, but not completely.  The cuts are to scar, as a reminder not to disobey me.” 

It is not the last punishment that Varian will endure over the coming days.  The wolf in Varian must be tamed, he must be taught to restrain natural instinct, and Garrosh relishes the battle of wills between them.  After that first beating he is taken to the tubs and washed and dressed in leather strapping that covers his genitals and little else.  A leather collar is fixed around his neck with a ring for a chain, and he fights this most of all.  Garrosh doesn’t bother to threaten the Prince again, he has him removed from Varian’s sight so that he does not know where his son lies or how he fares.  This is a particular kind of anguish, Garrosh thinks, the not knowing.  And despite the threat that hangs unspoken, Varian’s fighting blood rises against humiliation and attempts at control.  It’s a natural thing Garrosh can understand, that deprives one of reason, that sees challenge through the reddened eyes of rage. 

Varian spends is first night in Orgrimmar chained to a post in the Hold’s main chamber, where a pad of furs is provided for him to sleep on.  He hands and feet are free to move and any who enter the Hold on Horde business are allowed to approach – but not touch – him.  Garrosh watches the interactions; there is hatred, curiosity, interest, even pity from some of the weaker fools, especially the Blood Elves.  Varian ignores them for the main part, sitting sprawled on the furs, his back to the post. 

Garrosh watches him, he can’t help but do so - Varian Wrynn is a fascinating study.  Beaten and restrained as he has been, he is composed, though tired, upright and still radiating that human arrogance.  It’s a feature of these stronger humans, their resilience and stubborn determination.  It’s what makes them an Orc’s favourite prey.

Garrosh selects some leftover food and puts it on his plate, and holds it out.  “Eat.”

Varian looks at the plate, and turns away.

“I gave you an order.  Have you changed your mind already?”

Varian shrugs.  “I do not believe I can…eat.  I will probably vomit.”

“If you do, you’ll clean it up.  Eat.  You’ll need it.”

Varian hesitates, then accepts the plate with a human’s natural physical grace.  It contains some bread and a half-eaten chicken along with a small apple, and he puts it between his legs on the floor and picks at the food half-heartedly.  He appears to decide the bread is safest, and breaks off a chunk, chewing on it with unfocused calm.  Garrosh calls his personal servant over and gives him certain orders, then sits back to finish his beer. 

Once he begins eating, his appetite seems to return and Varian finishes most of the food on the plate.  By the time he has eaten his fill the room has emptied, except for two Kor’kron guards standing by the door.  They are Garrosh’s personal guard and will stay there until relieved the following morning. 

Garrosh leans back in the chair, a mug of beer in his hand, and contemplates his prize.  He appears quite docile at that moment, but Garrosh knows it is superficial.  Varian is tired, worn by the pain of his whipping, worried about his son, a lot of other things Garrosh doesn’t know and doesn’t care about.  He decides to poke him and see how deep this serenity lies.

“Tomorrow we go to finish the destruction of Stormwind.  You will join me and watch the end of it.”  He swallows another mouthful of beer and wipes a hand across his mouth.  “There is no one left there to bury your dead, so I’ll make a pyre of your city so that everything may burn together.  That’s more honour than the worms deserve, but I’m feeling generous.”

He is wiping his mouth on his arm as Garrosh speaks and he pause;  the hand shakes and Garrosh thinks, there it is, the fire that is nowhere near extinguished.  Well, perhaps seeing his city burn will do something about that, one way or another. 

“Why do you do that?” Varian asks finally, voice shaking with barely repressed emotion. 

“Do what?”

“Goad me.  To save my son you say I must obey you, not fight you, yet you push at me to lose control.”  Varian slides as far away as the chain will allow, as if to put distance between himself and his anger.  “It’s not as if you need an excuse to kill Anduin, you could do it whenever you please.”

“That is true, I can.  There might be a certain satisfaction if you were the cause of it.  Another scar to add to the ones I’ve given you.”  He hooks one hand around the chain and drags Varian back towards him.  “And as well, I will break your spirit in time.  I want an obedient slave with no fire left in his belly and when the day comes that you abase yourself to me willingly, with all honour dead, desiring nothing but to please me, then I’ll have won.”  Garrosh places a hand under Varian’s chin, forcing his head up.  “When I ‘goad’ you and see nothing but fear and despair in your eyes, I will have truly won.”

“Before that day comes, I’ll be dead,” Varian sneers, grabbing the chain and yanking it out of the Warchief’s hand, and Garrosh only smiles.

“Perhaps.” 

The following day Garrosh and his Kor’kron guards, with Varian, travel to Stormwind by mage portal.  Garrosh directs the final destruction from on board his ship, the “Flame Wolf” from where it hovers above the smoking city.  In between issuing orders and receiving reports, he observes Varian where he stands at the gunship’s rails, looking down at his city.  His hands clench and unclench on the railing but otherwise he barely moves, except his eyes.  Garrosh thinks he is taking it in, seeing it more or less whole for the last time. 

Flames have already started burning their way through sections of the city; the sappers have laid charges and barrels of oil, and more oil has been sprayed from above by flyers.  One after another the buildings catch alight, red and black stinking flame gradually moving through the streets from building to building.  Two other gunships hover above the Palace dropping charges down onto the walkways and towers. He sees Varian lean forward, his attention suddenly caught, and Garrosh moves across to see what has caught his eye.

They have moved lower, across Old Town and are near the stables.  A number of Orcs are leading horses out from the stables, and near the fence butchers are at work.  Garrosh sees one particular horse, a large white beast, fighting the Orcs who are attempting to lead it.  He hears a word choked off.

“Champion….”

Varian turns away and puts his back to the railing, stares down at the deck, his features tight.  Garrosh reaches out and slides fingers under the collar, tilting his head up, and he catches sight of anguish, quickly hidden.  “Your horse?” he asks and after a moment Varian nods.

“He means something to you, I think.”

“I…raised him.  From a foal.  He is a fine mount, a loyal friend.”  Garrosh watches and sees the unvoiced request.

“Why should I let it live?  Give me a reason.”

Varian straightens, his voice cold and calm.  “So I can give you a further way to lodge your claws in me?  I think not.  But for him I will say, he is a brave companion, a fearless warmount.  He deserves better than to be butchered like a hog.”

Garrosh thought on it and nodded.  “Good enough reason.”  He leans over the railing, puts fingers to his mouth and makes a loud whistled signal.  The workers below look up and he points to the horse, make the arm signal for take-and-free, and they thump their chests in understanding.  “They’ll take him outside the city and release him.  Who knows, perhaps he’ll mate and make more of his kind.” He settles his hands over his chest, watching the dark eyes watching him.  “You may now say ‘thank you Warchief’.”

He sees the little battle in Varian’s eyes, and finally he nods briefly.  “Thank you…on Champion’s behalf…Warchief.”

And the saving of a horse seems to give him comfort, so that he is able to watch the annihilation of Stormwind with something like grace.


	2. Year 1:  A Chain's Length/That Which Survives

Varian’s life has narrowed down to the space within the length of a steel chain. He is constantly reminded of it. Every movement makes the links rattle against each other. The weight of it on the collar around his neck causes the leather to rub against his skin. And the collar itself is like a dull toothache; not precisely painful except for what it reminds him of. Once before he’d worn a collar, been a slave of Orcs, in that time when he’d forgotten who he was and lived only for the fighting and the bloody victories. At the end of it his mind had been healed and he’d gained the promise of a future and a home. This enslavement tasted more of an ending. It wasn’t easy to find hope within that small, restricted place.

And having nothing else to do but sit and think, he is left with the parade of his failures. The Horde’s attacks had come like a lightning blast, striking at the heart of the Alliance on multiple fronts. The Blood Elves and Forsaken had swept down out of the north, smashing through Gilneas and turning Ironforge into a poisoned tomb for the dwarves. Garrosh’s forces had swept across Kalimdor in a bold and unexpected advance. The new goblin-designed gunships had shattered his own airborne forces. There had been just too many battlefronts, too many incursions, and nowhere more incisive than any other point to concentrate his dwindling forces at. The Exodar had been taken, Darnassus reduced to shattered ruin, the leadership of the Alliance dead or missing. And finally Stormwind gone, destroyed for a second time in his lifetime, its glowing white walls fallen to rubble.

And there is always the fear for Anduin. That is a constant gnawing at his guts and he needs to force it down whenever it grows too great. He knows it’s a weapon in Garrosh’s hands and he already has all the weapons he needs.

His fingers scratch idly at the three-day growth as he sits with his back against a wall. Beards had never suited him; on the rare occasion he’d grown one he thought he’d looked like a demented bear. But a visit to a barber seemed hardly likely so he just scratched and bore it, along with everything else. He was alone in the big throne chamber, except for two bored Kor’kron guards slouching near the door talking to each other in whispers. Garrosh was away, had been for a day, leaving his new slave attended only by the guards who managed him, had him fed and watered and taken to the privy as needed. Varian came to the unpleasant realisation that he almost looked forward to the Warchief’s return. A provoking presence that at least would ease the boredom.

Staring at the walls wasn’t much of a pastime, especially given their decoration. Tattered and stained Alliance banners hang everywhere, including his own torn Royal Stormwind standard. And on one wall, in pride of place in a set of iron brackets, lies Shalamayne. The gem set a third way down the big blade glowes only dimly, as if it also suffers from its imprisonment, so far from its master’s hands.

The quiet is disturbed by the sound of loud voices, doors thrown open, Orcish shouts of _Loktar Ogar!_ And Varian notes that Provocation has returned. The Kor’kron guards straighten when Garrosh strides into the chamber, accompanied by his war council and close companions. There is a rush of activity, tables set with beer and food, a peon appearing with a washbowl and cloth for Garrosh to use, to clean the blood and dirt from his face and chest, other peons entering carrying caskets and chests that are set out against a wall. Spoils, it seems, from another battle.

The Warchief gathers his council to the map table, wipes his hands as he points down at various places on the big war map. Orders are given, and various commanders salute and head out to follow them. The rest of his council sit at the table to refresh themselves while Varian watches and tries to hear just who among his people have suffered this day. He eventually draws Garrosh’s attention, and the Warchief turns toward him.

“I hope that Tyrande Whisperwind wasn’t a close friend. If so, feel free to mourn her.” Garrosh’s hazel eyes gleam and he nods thoughtfully. “She fought well, her and those moon worshipers of hers. Her mate vanished somewhere, running back to his Emerald Dream lair perhaps. He would have had to tread across a great many corpses to find her remains.”

The sudden cruelty destroys Varian’s resolution. He thrusts himself forward, brought up sharp by the chain jerking him backwards, teeth bared in stomach-churning anger. As Garrosh steps close to grab the chain Varian latches onto his hand and bites down hard, breaking the skin, tasting Orc blood. He spits, beyond words.

Garrosh steps back a pace or two, eyes hardening under lowered brows. He doesn’t strike back, doesn’t even look down at hand. He speaks without turning. “Malkorok, bring the boy to me.”

Varian realises what he has done and pulls himself back, grasping for self-control. “You did this…deliberately did this! You incite me to react, then threaten my son as punishment.”

Garrosh speaks very softly, eyes fixed on Varian’s face. “I told you how it would be if you struck at me.” He moves closer, almost touching, so close that Varian can sense his body heat. “I am master here and you’ll bend to my will, or you’ll break.”

Varian straightens, steadies himself as best he can, swallowing the anger and pain and wishing he had some of his son’s calm and balance because he finally realises that there is no place now for challenge or combat– he can’t fight his way through this crisis. _Bend. I have to bend. My pride will kill the both of us if I don’t submit. I can worry about my self-respect later…_

Anduin is brought in and his eyes light at the sight of his father. He seems well enough, clothed in simple clean trousers and a shirt. Varian sees how he moves, how he ignores the hard grip on his arms, the pressure of the chain on the collar, bearing himself with the same quiet composure he’s always worn like a garment. Despite the fear Varian realises that his son is stronger, in that place and time, than he is. Anduin’s faith in the Light and love for his father transcends fear. Nothing done to him can unmake him.

Malkorok holds Anduin by the collar around his throat, waiting on his Warchief’s command. Garrosh waits too, as if considering options and Varian moves as close to him as can. “I will do anything you wish. I will…obey. For him.”

The amber eyes look into his, hooded and unreadable. Then he reaches out and unclips the chain from Varian’s collar, and pulls him along by the ring attached to it. He sits and rests the still bleeding hand on his lap. “Kneel.”

Varian drops down to his knees and waits, forcing himself to be calm. Garrosh puts out his hand. “Lick it clean.”

Varian barely hesitates. He bends forward, takes the large hand and puts it to his lips, runs his tongue across the bruised flesh and cleans the blood away, then works his tongue across the back of the hand, over the fingers and onto the palm. When there is no trace of dirt or blood he lifts his head and waits as the hand slips under his chin. He makes no resistance as Garrosh lifts his face and he looks into the watchful hazel eyes.

“Lessoned learned then. Perhaps there is hope for you.” Garrosh looks across at the waiting Orc. “Take him back. Five lashes on the back only, in payment of the bite.” He glances down at Varian, who twitches at the words, but makes no other move. “And you,” he says to Varian, “well, we’ll see how resolute you are, and how determined to do…anything…you may be.”

 

Year 1: That which Survives

 

Garrosh is lying naked on his bed, leaning against the backboard, watching as Varian works on his cock.  He has a soft mouth and he has learned to use it well within his limitations.  He has difficulty taking all the big cock in but he takes much of it and then moves back and licks the hard length while holding it at the base, letting it slide against his cheek as he plies the space beneath with his tongue.  It’s interesting how aroused Garrosh becomes at the sight of that, the casual way his cock rests on Varian’s face.

But it took time to arrive at this, and Garrosh leans back with his arms behind his head as he remembers the first time…

There is a lull in the war against the remains of the Alliance as winter sets in across Azeroth.  It’s even touches Durotar with unusual severity, with sludgy cold rain that batters the land, flooding the streets of Orgrimmar and turning paths to mud.  Travel is difficult and uncomfortable and Garrosh prefers to stay indoors with a warm fire and good food and company.   His hunters have bagged a big wild boar and it is set on a spit to roast, while the cooks season it with oil and spices and shove fruit and stuffing in its belly.  Life is good, he thinks, as his people feast and toast his successes. 

He glances across to where Varian sits hunched in the corner.  The human watches the cheerful group around the fire, occasionally scratching at his beard or under his arm.  He is, Garrosh realises, very dirty.  His hair hangs lank and tangled over his shoulders and Garrosh doesn’t approve of the beard that sticks out in clumps from his face.  His bruising has turned black like splotches of ink on his skin, and all of him smells of rank human.

Garrosh signals for one of his servants and gives him certain orders, then stands and moves to where Varian lies.  He takes the chain from its ring on his chair and pulls it up, bringing the man to his feet.

“You’re filthy.  And you stink.  You need to be cleaned.”

Varian stands without comment, his blue eyes calm with a look that doesn’t challenge or question.  He is, Garrosh thinks, not that insulted at the words since even he’s probably just as tired of his stench.  They walk outside into the cold, wet night and Garrosh jogs to the bathing rooms, with Varian close behind. 

The small tiled hut is steamy and warm, with a single large round tub in its centre two thirds full.  The only occupant is a goblin standing near the door fanning himself in the warmth, and he bobs his head in salute when Garrosh enters.

“Warchief, you sent for me?”

“Yes.” He gestures to Varian.  “Shave him.”

“Certainly, certainly, glad to oblige.”  He grins up at the human.  “Never thought I’d have the chance to shave the King of Stormwind.  What an honour.  Take a seat if you would and I’ll get that growth gone.  It don’t suit you, I have to say, hope you don’t take that amiss but I’ve seen many beards and…” He continues to ramble on as Varian sits, watching the little barber and looking both surprised and amused.  Garrosh removes the chain from Varian’s collar and drops it beside him, then strips and climbs into the tub, resting on the raised side bench with his arms hooked over the edge.  For all that the goblin’s chatter is inane, he still works efficiently, lathering up Varian’s face, honing his straight razor and carefully working it through the growth of beard.  In a short time the King’s face is stripped of beard and Varian rubs a hand across it.  “Thank you, much better.”

“No problem at all.  Glad to be of service.”  He collects his gear, salutes the Warchief and leaves.  Varian looks up at the Warchief, who gestures him forward, and he removes the leather strapping and climbs into the warm water with a sigh.  Garrosh watches as Varian grabs soap to wash his matted hair.  He isn’t satisfied with it until he scrubs and rinses it twice.

“You’ve not had much to say lately,” Garrosh comments as Varian squeezes water from his hair.

“There hasn’t been much opportunity for civilized conversation.”  Varian works at the wet hair, running his fingers through it, tugging out knots and mats that float away in the water.

“Are you suggesting,” Garrosh says in a mild tone, “that I’m uncivilized?”

The hands pauses briefly, then move again.  “Depends on whether or not you’d find that insulting.”  Varian’s eyes are watchful, though there’s no hint of fear in his tone.  He takes a sponge, adds soap to it and works it across his chest and shoulders.

“Well, since this uncivilized Orc now controls Azeroth, no, I can’t say I find it a problem.”  There is something pleasant about watching Varian run the soapy sponge across his body and Garrosh realises then that he wants to feel that touch on himself.  “Come here.”  He stands, moves away from the bench.  “You’re clean enough, you may do the same for me.”

He notes that Varian doesn’t hesitate but stands and walks through the water behind him.  “I’ll have decent clothing made for you tomorrow.”

“That’s…appreciated.”  The sponge moves across his back in a circular motion, and Garrosh twitches slightly as the other hand rests on his back beneath his left shoulder in line with his heart.  It’s an automatic reaction, a response to being touched by a foe in such a vulnerable spot.  But there’s a unique pleasure in it, too, because this man, who hated and fought him for so long, can only touch Garrosh at his command, and only in ways that he wishes it done.  Even naked, he realises that he wears a kind of armour granted by Varian’s own weaknesses.

Varian moves around and starts on Garrosh’s front, working the lather across shoulders and arms and over the solid chest.  He slides the soapy sponge up to the Warchief’s throat, letting one hand rest over the big blood vessel, fingers pressing lightly so that Garrosh feels his pulse beat under the touch.  Varian’s blue eyes are unfocused, his expression unreadable and Garrosh wonders what he is thinking at that moment.  Probably wishing for things he can’t have.  Like the freedom to make his own choices.  Those choices, those decisions on whether he suffers, lives or dies, are now Garrosh’s.  He puts one hand at the back of Varian’s head, takes a handful of wet hair and pulls his head back, so that the eyes focus on him.  Then he bends his head and bites down, very carefully, on the pale, fragile skin of Varian’s throat.

Varian’s response is also automatic; he tries to pull back but Garrosh holds him in place, his other hand on the man’s back.  “Stay still,” he hisses, “unless you want me to slice you open.”  And when he does, when he freezes in place, body twitching still at the need to do something other than stay, Garrosh bites him again on the other side, watches the red blood well up brightly against the paler skin.  He licks it, his rough tongue sliding from side to side as the copper taste of it spills into his mouth, as this small conquest triggers an unexpected spark of arousal. 

He finally drops his hands and lets Varian move back, aware of the sudden tension in the way the man stands, fists clenched beneath the water.  “Why…?”  Varian’s eyes are wide, his face pale with some emotion that Garrosh doesn’t bother to consider.

“Because I can.”  He slides a thumb across the wounds, which will heal soon enough and leave hardly a scar.  A visible scar, that is.  “And because I wanted to.”  He pulls himself out of the tub and grabs a towel.  “Get dressed,” he says shortly, and hears the water slosh as Varian climbs out to dry himself. 

There’s a blue woollen robe on the wall peg in a size suitable for Varian to wear and he pulls it on, tying the woollen sash around his waist.  Garrosh reattaches the chain to his collar, wraps a clean loin cloth around his hips and groin, and moves out into the night, with Varian’s chain turned around his fist.  Seeing the mud lying human-ankle deep outside, he grabs Varian and hoists him over his shoulder, despite the annoyed complaint.  “Don’t like being carried, King?  You’d like your nice clean legs getting muddy again even less.”  And there is a reason for it, because rather than heading for the throne chamber, Garrosh jogs upstairs to his own rooms, which he preferred not to be tracked with two sets of dirty feet.

He drops Varian inside the door and wipes his own feet with a cloth.  It is a pleasant room, with furs on the floor, lanterns and candles in wall brackets, a metal oven in one corner providing warmth, and a large bed set against the far wall.  That catches Varian’s attention right away and he looks from it to Garrosh as he stands just inside the door.  Garrosh crosses the room, pulling Varian with him, and he slides the chain around the bed’s corner post, locking it in place.  He pours a cup of potent apple cider, consider it for a moment, then offers it to Varian. 

“You might want to drink this.  I’m going to test the limits of that promise of doing anything you made me.”

After a few second’s hesitation, Varian takes the mug, smells it, then swallows most of it down in one gulp.  He wipes his hand across his mouth, dark eyebrows lowering over shadowed eyes.  Garrosh pours himself a mug, sits on the edge of the bed, and watches the human as he drinks.  “So tell me, King,” he asks, between mouthfuls, “have you ever sucked a cock?”

Varian blinks rapidly and swallows another mouthful of his own cider.  “No.  Not something that a person in my position would do.”

“Nor had it done to you?  No?  Pity, but not surprising.  Never seen a people more constipated where sex is concerned.”  He places the empty mug on the sidetable and collects the chain, pulling Varian towards him.  “It’s real simple: you open your mouth, and the cock goes in, and you suck it.”  When Varian is standing in front of him, looking a bit stunned, he reaches up and pushes him down to his knees.  “So open your mouth for me, and keep those nasty little teeth out of the way.”  At the same time he strips away his loin cloth and lifts his prick into his hand.   And he waits, watching the small war take place in front of him as Varian fights his natural desire to curse and resist and finally, very unwillingly, he obeys.

The anticipation, the sight of that dark, proud head bending towards him, is almost better than the act itself.  He doesn’t touch the man, simply waits as the lips part and then there is the feel of that soft mouth enclosing the head of his cock.  Varian shudders, sways but keeps going, his tongue sliding underneath the flesh filling his mouth.  One hand comes to rest on Garrosh’s leg as he balances himself, the other seems uncertain what to do, and Garrosh helpfully guides it to his cock at the root and folds the fingers around the already aroused shaft.

Varian has no expertise in this but he does well for a beginner.  He sucks on it and the feel of that hot, wet pressure is wonderful, as is the way his mouth moulds itself to the gradually expanding flesh.  Garrosh sees the eyes close, dark lashes lying against flushed cheeks and he pushes forward a little, nudging the back of Varian’s throat, making him gag.  And finally he has to touch; he puts both hands at the back of Varian’s head, fingers sliding into the still-damp hair, holding his head lightly and guiding it upwards to lengthen the throat and allow deeper entry.  He moves forward, pushing his cock into Varian’s throat, holding it there for some seconds as the man writhes and chokes, then pulls back, waits, and pushes forward again.  And for the first time he sees tears gather on the end of those lashes, tears from the physical strain of this act perhaps, but tears nonetheless.

And that’s enough to have him reach an explosive climax, to shoot his seed into the struggling mouth and watch it drip down over Varian’s chin as those eyes open and stare up unseeingly at him until he collapses, gasping and choking, at Garrosh’s feet…

 

And the memory of that first time has him coming again, but Varian rides his cock easily, swallowing his seed and licking him clean and while that’s still incredibly satisfying it was not, perhaps, as fine as that first time when the King of Stormwind lay used and shocked at his feet.


	3. Year 2:  Invisible Wounds/Somehow Life Goes On

He is sitting on a box outside the blacksmith’s shop when a familiar voice intrudes on his thoughts.

”By all the hairy little gods, is that my old friend Lo’Gosh?”

Varian glances up, surprised, at the well-remembered Orc standing some short distance away.  “Rehgar Earthfurty.  You not dead yet?”

The Orc grins and saunters over to stand looking down at Varian.  “No, still surviving¸thanks to the Elements.  I heard about Stormwind, and you being taken. Couldn’t believe it, so came to check it out.”  He nods, eyes bright with curiosity.  “You not fighting in a ring?  That’s an opportunity missed by the Warchief, I’d have thought.”

“No, he doesn’t seem interested in that.  And you,” Varian says, looking his old gladiatorial master up and down, “that isn’t fighting gear.  You a shaman now?”

Rehgar nods, resting one foot up on another crate.  “I got the calling and had a great teacher to help me.  Got tired of having people die to make me rich.  More important things in life than money, y’know.”

Varian laughs.  “Never thought I’d hear those words out of Rehgar Earth….”

“What are you doing sitting there, scum?”

Varian’s eyes flick upwards to see Malkorok just across the laneway, and the humour fades from his eyes.  Malkorok is standing with two of his people, his small eyes narrowed.  “Collecting the Warchief’s boots, as it happens.”

Malkorok snorts a brief laugh.  “To lick, presumably.”  He saunters closer, ignoring Rehgar.  “But then I heard you’re practised now at using your mouth.  Fairly decent cocksucker, so I’ve heard.”  He leers and the others with him laugh.  “Maybe the Warchief will let me try you out, so I can see how far down that throat I can shove my cock.”

Varian’s stomach churned with hate.  “I wouldn’t want to deprive your wolf of the pleasure.”

He realises his mistake when the orc grins.  He tries to stand as a large hand lashes out as his head and he ducks automatically but trips over the crate.  Malkorok is there in a moment and slams one foot down on his arm, and Varian yells as he feels a bone break.  The orc pulls him up by hair and his yellow eyes gleam.  “Bad mistake, pig,” he snarls and slams Varian’s head back against the wall, and the world goes dark in a flash of pain.

He wakes to the sensation of healing and as vision returns he is looking up into his son’s face.  Anduin’s concerned blue eyes look down into his.  “Lay still for a moment,” Anduin says softly, as his hands check Varian’ head.  “Nasty bump there, you may have some concussion.”

Varian remembers the arm.  “My arm?”

“It was a clean break, I fixed that though it will be tender and weakened for a while.  Try not to get it trodden on again.”

“Alright, that’s enough.”  Garrosh appears in his view and he realises he is lying on the main Chamber floor.  “Get up.”

Varian climbs to his feet and looks about.  Malkorok is there, along with various others of the Warchief’s central advisors and friends.  He focuses on Garrosh, sees the flare of anger in the amber eyes.  “I’m told you were insolent to Malkorok.”

Varian opens his mouth to explain, then stops.  _It doesn’t matter what I say,_ he realises, and closes it again, and simply nods.  Garrosh snorts, annoyed.

“For someone I’d believed was clever, you seem to be a slow learner.  So go to him, kneel and beg his forgiveness for your insolence.”

He hesitates, glances across at Anduin who is watching from the side of the room, his young face tense and worried.  There’s no option, really, if he wishes to survive, wishes Anduin to survive.  A buzzing tension grows in his chest, his focus narrows on Malkorok’s expectant face and he thinks _maybe soon, soon all of it will become too much to bear, even for Anduin’s sake_.  But he finally moves, pushing the boundaries of pride even further, and slowly kneels in front of the big orc.  Heart thudding with restrained disgust, he looks up and when he speaks his voice is level, without inflection.  “I apologise for my insolence.”

Malkorok slides his hand down to his pants, undoes them and pulls out his cock.  And he stands holding it as it sprays urine across Varian’s face and head.  As the warm stinking liquid hits him, Varian closes his eyes but somehow holds himself in place.  Because he knows what the bastard wants; wants him to fight, to go berserk, to lash out so that Garrosh would order his death and his son’s death and that would please him very much.  So he doesn’t, he holds himself still until the orc is finished.  “Apology accepted,” Malkorok says in a satisfied voice.

He sits there on his haunches while the piss dries on his head, staring at the wall, numb with the shame until the room empties except for him, and Garrosh.  He can’t seem to think of what to do.  Degradation numbs his mind and thoughts run around in ever-decreasing circles coming to the same place.  He lives in shame, or dies, he realises in that moment, as he finally begins to lose hope.  And as he has that moment of perception a large hand comes to rest under his chin and lifts his face to see Garrosh watching him with something that’s almost like sympathy.

“I understand he hates you.  Malkorok hates all humans, but you especially.  Rehgar told me what happened.  I’d rather…he hadn’t done that to you.  Your punishments are mine to choose.  Put it past you, and go and wash yourself.” 

But even as he goes to the bathing room and immerses himself in water almost scoldingly hot, even though he scrubs his face and head and shoulders repeatedly until his skin is red and the water finally starts to cool.  After drying himself off and dressing in clean clothing, Varian returns to Garrosh’s rooms where the guards leave him alone with his chain attached to its usual place on the bedpost. 

The quiet is welcome.  He’s tired, feeling stretched by the emotions of the day and although he hasn’t eaten since breakfast, the thought of food makes his stomach twist.  What he wants is forgetfulness, and a few moments of pleasure.  Varian strips naked and lies on the big bed on his back, and touches himself.  He’d had little time over the years for any sort of sexual intimacy, and had learned how to release those sexual tensions and needs himself. 

Servicing Garrosh’s cock hadn’t been sexual for him, it had been about power and the Warchief’s ability to command him to do it.  Certainly Garrosh enjoyed it, but Varian never had.  He’d not known a moment of arousal from those acts, but when he puts his hand on his cock he imagines someone doing that to him.  Imagines a mouth around him, the sucking pressure, the tongue circling the head and it takes very little time to trigger that first flush of heat in his groin, the familiar feel of pleasure swirling through his middle.  He closes his eyes and pumps himself to hardness; although the face of the person he imagines sucking him is faceless, he thinks its male.   Perhaps because men are better at it, men know what pleases another male. And when he finally comes, groaning with the bliss of release, he opens his eyes and sees Garrosh standing just inside the door, watching him with a curious intensity.

 

* * *

 

 

Garrosh had stopped just inside the door to his rooms, surprised into silence by the sight of Varian laying on his bed, pleasuring himself.  The act itself isn't that unusual, just the timing.

He'd had been annoyed at Malkorok when he’d learned all the facts.  Not for the punishment itself, but for it being done without his permission.  He’d issued orders that only he would touch Varian, or order any punishment for him, he’d made that very clear.  The fact that another had done it angered him.  And when he learned the cause he understood why Varian had said nothing in his own defence.  _Because he knew I’d support Malkorok_.  And that angers him too, because it makes him predictable. It makes him weak.

Varian is his.  That sense of possession had grown over the days.  At first it had been simply the satisfaction of defeating his greatest enemy.  It had become more.  He was a challenge, this human, and sometimes puzzling.  An orc would never have submitted as Varian had, never have allowed him or herself to be humiliated and degraded, no matter the cost.  At first Garrosh had considered it a weakness to be exploited, but he’d begun to wonder whether it wasn’t a kind of strength.

Survival was something Garrosh had only understood on a basic level.  You lived, or you died and that was that. But when he considered Varian’s desperate need to keep his son alive, he wondered if it wasn’t more than that.  A single life ended was just that, but if all single lives ended then the race ended as well.  The way his own people, corrupted by the Fel, had thrown themselves mindlessly into battle had shown how such waste could diminish the whole.  He knew Varian would die for the right cause.  Perhaps it showed greater courage to live for the right cause.

It was an unexpected revelation.

He shook his head, pushing aside the confusing thoughts for another time.  At that moment the thing that holds his attention is the way the human moans as he works himself to climax – and the way the sight and sounds stir Garrosh to arousal.  He’d intended to take the man at some stage – it was, after all, the ultimate act of possession – but he’d never felt the urge to do it.  Until now. 

He undresses, dropping his armour to the floor and kicking it aside.  Varian is watching him and his eyes widen at that, and he sits up, pushing himself to his feet.  Garrosh says nothing, continues to strip until he’s naked, until Varian can clearly see his already partly aroused cock.  When he sees the alarmed expression on the human’s face, he nods.

“Yes, that’s exactly what’s going to happen.”  He walks to a small set of drawers, opens one and takes out a jar of gel.  "This is for my comfort, by the way, not yours.  An invasion is almost always...painful."  When he turns back Varian has moved as far as he can within the length of the chain, as if doing that puts enough distance between him and Garrosh’s intentions.  He reaches out and snags the chain, pulling the human towards him.  When he’s close, Garrosh takes a handful of the man’s long hair and pulls it down behind his back, force his head up.  He looks into the wide, blue eyes and nods.  “It will happen.  You’re mine, to do with as I will, when I will.  I’d say you shouldn’t fight me because it will be easier if you don’t, but I expect you will anyhow.”  He smiles as anger flushes the pale features.  “I give you permission to fight me, in fact.  Mounting you without resistance wouldn’t be anywhere near as good.”

It’s primal then, almost animalistic and just as good as he’d expected.  Varian does fight him, using all his not-inconsiderable strength so that, even unarmed and naked, he inflicts bruises and bite marks on Garrosh’s skin.  He almost breaks off a tusk yanking at Garrosh’s mouth when he shoves a slickened finger into the tight arse.  Varian’s feet punch against Garrosh’s stomach when he’s pushed onto his back and his legs reefed up.  And when the oiled, fully aroused cock is pushed inside him, he shouts and bites and almost manages to twist away until the sheer weight of Garrosh’s body forces his submission.  He still resists even then, even as Garrosh mounts him with a moan of absolute pleasure at the feel of that tight, hot body around him.  And when the broad head of his cock strikes a certain place inside Varian, he shudders and hisses and tries to deny the pleasure that touch evokes and battles to the very end, to Garrosh’s shuddering climax as he spills himself into Varian’s body.

It isn’t simply satisfying, Garrosh realises, as he collapses next to the cursing, sweating human.  It’s the best sex he’s ever had.  He pats Varian’s damp face with a pleased grunt, and is rewarded with his hand being bitten.  Just as it should be.

 

Year 2:  Somehow Life Goes On

Varian is woken by the feel of a big hand sliding beneath his stomach, pulling him backwards.  He twists onto his back and kicks out, his heel slamming into a solid hipbone.  Garrosh grunts and swears and Varian snarls as his hair is grabbed and pulled. He shoves his head up, connecting with a hard chin and grabs hold of a tusk and yanks.  Garrosh shakes his head, dislodging the hand and the two of them roll across the bed until Varian is on top, sitting on Garrosh’s stomach.  He slides forward, bends, and bites down hard on a nipple.

He has never, in the two years of being Garrosh’s slave, been taken by the Warchief without a fight.  That he never manages to win makes no difference. The Warchief, he knows, occasionally enjoys more accommodating partners.  He always returns to the one who never accommodates, who makes him pay for the sex each time in pain to gain an ultimate domination.  It seems to be one thing Garrosh never wearies of. 

While part of Varian knows this, knows that his determined refusal to submit is what ensures his own assault, it’s the one part of his life where he is free to fight, to safely release his own necessarily contained aggression.  It’s when Garrosh allows him to be himself, for a short time.

The bite earns him a slap across the head; he groans as his vision blurs and in that few moments of loss of coordination he is grabbed and lifted and brought down hard onto Garrosh’s cock.  Only the remnants of the previous bout gives him any sort of relief as the hard flesh drives up into his arse, stretching him open.  It hurts, it may well always hurt because he is human and Garrosh isn't and his body, like his spirit, can only adapt so far.  But the burn and pain is less than it was at the beginning, and he's almost used to it, an odd familiarity.  With long experience, Garrosh tumbles him onto his back, not dislodging himself in the process and the power of his hips and thighs drives the cock deeper into Varian as he struggles to find something to hit in the body arching above him.  All he touches is muscled arms and shoulders and he looks up into the feral light in the eyes looking down at him.  Garrosh slides his hands over Varian’s chest and grips his upper arms, keeping him in place as he ruts, faster and harder, his chest vibrating with his rhythmic grunts.

And there are moments of physical pleasure during the course of that familiar flesh touching him inside.  It’s the only time he gives way, the only time he lets his eyes half-close and nostrils flare at those times of carnal bliss that he earns by his defiance.  He knows Garrosh choses to do it deliberately, that he finds some sort of satisfaction in seeing Varian respond to him that way.  Another small victory, but one Varian can’t find the strength to deny him.

And if, as on that occasion, he folds Varian against his chest after climax, holding him a grip that’s both possessive and oddly comforting, he doesn’t try to understand it.  It’s just how things are and he responds by accepting the touch without blows, because he can.

 


	4. Year 3:  Plans, and Life Happening

Varian inspects the piece of leather, brushing his thumb across the soft underside. “Yes, the tanning is good but could you deepen the colour?  Make it less scarlet, more earthy?”

The Orc tanner reaches behind him, picks up a jar of reddish ochre.  “With more of this, yes.  It will be dark.”

“Good enough, it will match the Warchief’s belt.  I’ll collect it tomorrow, my thanks.” 

He picks up the pile of leather, rivets and straps of his purchase and leaves the tannery, tucking the items into the bag attached to his belt.  It’s warm, a typical summer’s day and the sun is directly overhead.  Varian hardly notices the heat; wearing leather trousers, half boots and an open-necked cloth shirt, he is comfortable from familiarity with the climate.  Where his skin shows through the clothing it is a deep golden brown, and his long hair, worked in a braid behind him, is sun streaked and shining.  He walks casually through the busy streets, a familiar sight to the residents of the city and he nods to those who greet him along the way. 

He salutes the guards as he passes into the Hold and they nod, returning to their conversation as he heads up to his living quarters.  Varian goes to his workroom, a small chamber off the Warchief’s own quarters.  He has a work desk, neatly ordered with his leatherworking tools and he puts the items away and settles down to continue work on set of leather bracers lying on the bench.

He hears a familiar voice speaking to the guards and light footsteps running up the stairs.  Arms wrap around his neck and he smiles up into his son’s face.  “Finished your morning work already?”

Anduin plants himself on the workbench and bites into the apple he is eating.  “Yes, all done.  There wasn’t much to do today, just a few injured peons from a beast attack in Ashenvale.  The locals could have fixed them but you know those base healers.  Anything larger than a broken toenail and they send it here.”

Anduin has filled out over the years, grown from the slight, blond boy into a healthy teenager.  He is often found running around Orgrimmar, distaining a mount, his healer’s pack bobbing on his back.  Looks so much like his mother, Varian thinks for the hundredth time.  _Not so much like me._   But Anduin’s strength is just as true as his father’s, as well as a kind of patience that it has taken his father a long term to learn.

“Umm.  Father…”

The tone is enough for Varian to pause in his work.  “Yes?”

Anduin fiddles with his apple, not taking another bite, staring at the fruit.  “Do you remember a girl called Leisel?”

“Hmm, I think so.  Redhead, freckles, good with herbs.  That her?”

“Yes.  Thing is, we’ve been getting sort of close over the last couple of months.  I really like her.  Do you think…would the Warchief let us become mates?”

His first though was… _once he would have said ‘get married’…_ and his second thought was:  “You hardly know her!”

Anduin shrugs and raises his eyes finally, with the quiet determination Varian knows so well.  “We don’t have time for getting to know people.  You know that.  I like her well enough and she likes me.  She could be sent away any time.  And there are so few…”

_Yes, so few.  So few young human women, so few he could meet and get to like and decide to be with as a husband and maybe one day a father.  So few humans left at all._

“Well, if you think you’d suit each other, I’ll talk to Garrosh and see what he says.  She answers to Eitrigg, yes?  He’s a decent master, I’m told, so perhaps it can happen.  Leave it to me.”

Pleased and hopeful, Anduin leaves to carry on his daily duties and Varian returns to his work on the leather.  He has one bracer complete and the other drafted out by the time Garrosh arrives back from his visit to Thunder Bluff.  The workers were busy there extending the city, cutting new levels into the bluffs and extra flight towers for the zeppelins.  The great plains of Mulgore were now covered with herds, including growing numbers of cattle and sheep collected from Stormwind’s surviving flocks. 

The Horde herdsmen had been fairly ignorant about caring for these new beasts and, at Varian’s suggestion, a few surviving shepherds and cattle breeders from among the Alliance races had been gathered together to help.  Each year the risk of famine receded as new crops and beasts were incorporated into the Horde’s larders.  Famine was unconcerned about who it touched, whether Horde or anyone else.

He hears Garrosh on the stairs and tidies his workdesk, collecting the one bracer he’d completed before heading down to the Warchief’s living quarters.  He pauses at the doorway, noting Malkorok’s presence.  The loathing for the Orc is as strong as it ever was but he knows how to deal with the bastard now.  He is polite, distant and avoids being alone in his company whenever possible.  When he must be, he avoids conflict.  But even his old enemy seems to have grown some wisdom with time, and he sees Varian, frowns, and turns to his Warchief.

“I’ll be going then.  Perhaps we can discuss the plans tomorrow?”

Garrosh grunts agreement and settles back into the wide padded couch.  He nods to Varian, seeing the bracer in his hands.  “Finished them?”

“Not quite, but I just wanted to check the fit on this one.”  He moves quietly across the room, judging the Orc’s mood.  He seems relaxed, if a little tired and obviously ready for his evening meal.  “If you could take off your glove and bracer, probably your left ones.”  Garrosh does so, dropping them on the floor, and Varian sits beside him, sliding the bracer over his lower arm and clipping the metal clips closed.  Garrosh raises his arm and flexes the muscle, watches the leather stretch. 

“A bit tight, but it’ll stretch.  Nice work.”  He fingers the braiding along the edges.  “You’re getting better at this.”

“I like the work, I often repaired my own gear when I had time.”  He takes the bracer off and folds it, then looks across at Garrosh.  “Anduin has asked me to speak to you on a personal matter.”

The amber eyes watch him, eyelids drooping. “And?”

“He wants to marry a young woman called Leisel.  She’s a nice girl, I think they’d suit each other.”

Garrosh tilts his head, eyes unfocused.  “The name is familiar.  Who owns her?”

“Eitrigg.”

“Ah yes.  Well, I have no objection.  I doubt Eitrigg will.  I’ll buy her collar as a mating gift.  That suit you?”

Varian nods.  “Thank you, yes.”

“And in repayment,” he says quietly, lifting Varian’s chin with one finger, “tonight you’ll come to my bed and you won’t fight me.  We’ve fought each other long enough I think.”

Varian agrees and for the first time accepts Garrosh without struggle.  It is easier for him, less painful as Garrosh uses oils to ease his entry and while Varian doesn’t participate, he doesn’t resist and anywhere he rests his hands on Garrosh is simply touching and nothing more.  Neither of them are precisely gentle with each other;  softness isn’t something either of them are accustomed to.  But it’s better, he supposes.  He’d never planned on acceptance, but then he’d never planned on surviving either. 

It was surprising to wake the next morning, warmed by the large body next to him, and not feel ashamed.


	5. Year 3:  Wrathion

It is only a month after Anduin’s marriage that Varian first meets the Black Dragon.

Varian is fishing from the small lake in Orgrimmar when he hears a light step behind him and looks up at an exotically unusual figure.  He’s darkly humanoid, slender, dressed in strange clothing with a turban on his head.  But it’s the eyes that catch Varian’s immediate attention; they’re red with no visible pupil – completely red like glowing rubies.  And they are looking down at Varian with intent, unblinking interest.

The stranger settles down gracefully on the ground a little way from him, while two orcs in leather stand behind him, arms tucked behind their backs.  He watches Varian, his head to one side, and when he speaks his voice is odd, almost echoing.  “Varian Wrynn.”

It isn’t a question, but a statement of knowledge.  Varian nods.  “You have the better of me, sir, I don’t know your name.”

“My name is Wrathion.”

Varian frowns, thoughtfully.  “Wrathion.  I’ve heard that name before.  Are you the same Wrathion who lived at Ravenholdt Manor?”

“Yes, that is I.”

“Wrathion, as in a black dragon?”

Wrathion nods, folding his hands on his lap.  “The only one, in fact.  I felt it was time that we met.”

Varian has the unsettling feeling that he doesn’t particularly want to talk to this creature, this dragon with the face of a man.  He senses danger and clenches his fists.  “Last time I heard, black dragons were corrupted beyond redemption.  Deathwing being the prime example.”

“Hmm.”  Wrathion nods thoughtfully, as if being accused of corruption was familiar.  “My father did great evils.  His death was a necessary but unfortunate event.”

“Your father!” 

Wrathion waves one hand languidly.  “Please, let us not dwell on that disastrous relationship.  I am not Deathwing, I don’t intend to slaughter everyone around me in a fit of mad rage.  As I say, I’ve come to meet you.”  The ruby eyes focus on Varian with a disturbing intensity.  “It was time that I explained matters of great import to you.”

Varian stands, dusting his pants and collecting his fishing gear.  “I am not someone anymore who is all that interested in matters of great import.  If you have information of that kind, you should be talking to the Warchief.”

Wrathion also stands, tidying his clothing as he does.  “On the contrary, the Warchief is the last person I wish to talk to.  The less he knows what I know, the better for everyone.  But you – you need to know.”

As Varian turns away, one the dragon’s bodyguards moves in front of him.  She makes no direct threat, but he senses it nonetheless.  “Get out of my way.  Please.”

Wrathion’s voice is mildly scornful.  “You would not have said please once, would you, slave.”

That makes him turn back, eyes narrowed.  “If that’s meant to wound me, you’re about three years too late.”

“Ah time, the very crux of the matter.  In fact, my timing is perfect. Surely you are interested to know why you’re a slave?  Why your people died and your Alliance fell?”

“I know that.”  Varian eyed the bodyguard and wondered if it was worth trying to push past, and then he turned to the dragon.  “It’s history, past and dead.”

“In fact, it’s not.  History is malleable, if you have the key.  But I’ll give you that it’s dead, as are your people.  But what you need to know is that it was necessary.”

“Necessary.  That’s an odd phrase.  Necessary to who?”

“To Azeroth.  To the future of the entire world and everything living on it.”  Wrathion studies his gloved hands, clenching them lightly on his lap and he looks out across the quiet lake with the look of one discussing simple things like the weather or the crops.  “The Burning Legion,” he said softly, “is returning.”

Varian’s eyes narrow; it’s an outrageous claim and he can’t keep the scorn from his tone.  “You know that, do you?”

“I do.  As certainly as I know that day follows night.  It will not be tomorrow, or even this year, but it will be soon. And I know something else, with equal certainty – if things had remained as they were prior to Garrosh’s victory over the Alliance, Azeroth would have faced the invasion in conflict with itself, and it would have fallen.  Not just fallen, but been utterly destroyed.  Every living thing, the world itself would have been shattered.”

Varian isn’t sure whether laughing in the face of a dragon might be considered an insult.  So he tries reason.  “How can you know that?  How can anyone know for certain what happens in the next five minutes – not to mention days or weeks or years in the future?”

“Dragons can.  Especially Bronze Dragons.  They are the keepers of the timeways, they read the flow of the future.  And they revealed to me what the future would be if things stayed the way they were.”

“Things being?”

“As I said, the way they were prior to Garrosh’s victory over the Alliance.  It was deemed necessary for the forces of Azeroth to be united.  Since that unity was impossible…”  Wrathion eyes Varian with a dark intensity.  “…the only alternative was that one side had to be removed, so that a forced integration could occur.  I tell you this because you, Varian Wrynn, former High King of the Alliance, were saved for a purpose.  Having you beside him, having your judgment there to temper his violence, was important.  You give Garrosh Hellscream what he needs to be victorious against the Legion.  You fill those gaps in his personality that would have weakened him and made him vulnerable.  I cannot understate how important it is that you are with him when the time comes.  You need to be there to support him, to help him defeat the Legion when it comes.  You will help him save Azeroth!”

“Words.  You speak a lot of words.”  They buzz around Varian’s mind like biting insects refusing to settle.  “Do you seriously expect me to believe that you and some group of dragons engineered the death of thousands to fulfil some ridiculous plan to save the world?”

“Right at this moment?  Perhaps not.  But in time you will know I have spoken the truth.  When the first signs of the Legion’s coming appears you will know then.”  Wrathion’s voice drops to a whisper and his red eyes suddenly seem to Varian to be ultimately evil.  “I am sorry for the death of your Alliance, more sorry than I can ever say.  But far better the death of thousands than the death of all.”

Varian roars out his pain and leaps for Wrathion’s throat.  “Thousands!  Thousands of babies, of children, of the helpless and the old and the sick. My people died and you – are – sorry!”  He hands scrabble for Wrathion’s thin neck but he is suddenly on his back with the dragon’s two guards restraining him.  He kicks at them, using all his force to propel them away, his fury giving him strength.  He hardly feels their blows, Wrathion’s face fills his vision and he smiles when he sees a flash of fear darken the alien features.  “I’ll kill you!  By the Light I swear it!”

It’s only when some of the city guards overpower him, when their blows finally drive him unconscious, that the hated face finally fades from his view.

 

* * *

 

 

Garrosh watches Varian recover and wonders.  The man had been calm and relatively at peace for many months, with hardly a raised voice.  Then suddenly he goes berserk, attacking some visitors to the city and having to be subdued by his guards and knocked unconscious to control him. Garrosh has taken the unpleasant step of restraining him, of putting a chain through his collar and tying him down to the hold’s beam as hadn’t been done since his early days of capture.  He is oddly shaken by this reversal.  He’d grown accustomed to a different Varian.

And what to do now?  He’d fought back against the guards, used violence, caused injury.  As a slave, that action requires punishment.  And he will be punished, regardless of the reasons, because maintaining control is necessary.  Garrosh finds it unpleasant to think that he’ll have to hurt Varian.  And that concerns him too, at some level he doesn’t quite understand.

He sits on the floor next to Varian as he comes awake.  His blue eyes gradually focus as he sits up and he freezes as he feels the restrains and the chain.  His head slowly swivels towards Garrosh and he shakes his head, raising bound hands to wipe his face.  “This again,” he mutters and Garrosh nods.

“You attacked someone, fought my guards, caused injury.  You know that has to be punished.”

Varian nods, resting back against the old, worn post.  “I suppose I do.”

The fatalistic attitude makes Garrosh growl.  “Why?  Tell me why.”

“Would it make any difference?”

The Warchief snorts in frustration.  “No.  But I still want to know why.  Makes no sense.”

He sees those familiar eyes look into his and realises he’s come to understand the sorts of unspoken body language that once would have meant little to him.  Like an orc, Varian has learned to speak without using words.  He will say nothing, give no excuse or reason.  There is no challenge in his body, simply refusal.  With a grunt of annoyance Garrosh stands and goes to the wall for his whip.  When he returns Varian is already standing with his hands up on the post and his legs apart.  Garrosh reaches out to tear the shirt from his back so that he can deliver the beating he must.   He can only wonder, as he lays the lash across the sun-golden skin, as he hears the small sounds of pain from his slave, why such things no longer give him any satisfaction.


	6. Year 4:  The Portal/Khadgar

She couldn’t remember what name she’d been given at birth by the family she’d lost.  The pain and anguish of seeing her children, her husband and parents, siblings and friends all die at the hands of the Horde had shattered her mind.  She wondered for a time why she’d even kept on living.  It had made little sense then, but now it did.  Now she lived for vengeance, to make them pay for all that she’d lost. 

So she gave herself a new name.  She called herself Dread.

She isn’t sure when her demons had begun to whisper to her.  At first she thought it was her mind playing tricks but in time the whispers started making sense.  They were in Demonic of course, and she understood Demonic, being a warlock.  They were comforting, those whispers, offering their sympathy, angry at the slaughter, wanting revenge as she did.

Somehow her wandering take her to Blasted Lands and she finds herself facing the Dark Portal.  It is empty of power with no energies flowing through it, standing like a strange, twisted gateway to nowhere.  The whispers are very strong here and when she lays a dirty hand on the stone facings they offer her a redemption.

_Open the Portal.  Offer it your life, your power, your energy, your heart and soul.  Give it all freely and I will free you of pain, and destroy those who caused it.  Warlock, I am waiting for you…._

It is a fine offer and she accepts it, since the only alternative is death, and that is a wasted, bitter path.  So she steps back, spreads her arms wide and speaks the demonic words of power in time with the whispers, lets all of her life force, all of her gathered fel, everything she is and could be, flow into the portal stones.  There is flicker of power in the empty opening, a brief flash of green as if, for a moment, a tiny aperture had appeared and then vanished.

And in that moment the demon lord possesses her, melding with her consciousness, gathering her memories, taking her offered soul to himself and joining with her.  She opens her eyes as she reforms, becoming Lady Dread, and she smiles as she turns back to the Portal to begin her work.

 

* * *

 

 

Garrosh is sitting up in bed reading through reports and thinking of breakfast.  Beside him, Varian stirs, snuffling in his sleep.  He’s lying on his stomach, as naked as Garrosh and sprawled on the bedding, one leg hanging over the edge.  For at least the tenth time Garrosh think that he needs to get a bigger bed.  They are both large and while the bed was ample for him when he slept alone, having Varian in it makes things crowded.  Of course, he could simply move Varian onto the pad across the room after sex, but he’s used to having him there.  He thinks of it as a convenience, nothing more.

Then Varian turns, his head pressing his face against Garrosh’s thigh unthinkingly in sleep and Garrosh thinks… _perhaps something more._   He likes having his slave available for him whenever he wants, likes to touch because he can, whenever he wishes.   Although Varian still resists when the mood is on him, it’s done more out of habit than any kind of anger.  And truth be told, Garrosh rather enjoys it.  Even after years, there is a delicious satisfaction in that small, intimate victory.

Garrosh runs a hand over Varian’s stomach, fingers light on the warm satiny human skin.  He’s kept himself fit despite his captivity; he runs every day around Orgrimmar and will often go out with hunting parties for the enjoyment of it, and the exercise.  There is little need to guard him – Anduin and his mate still live in Orgrimmar and Varian would never risk their lives, especially with a baby on the way.  The yellow haired whelp is a lot more virile than he looks, Garrosh thinks with a mild smile.  Varian even spars now, punching the dummies, doing stick fights with the training masters.  It pleases him to watch the man fight, and he’s nearly as good as he was the day he was taken.  Garrosh wonders sometimes who’d win in a fight with real weapons.  He likes to think he would, but he’s never entirely sure.  He might have to try one day because he doesn’t like doubting his skill.

Varian also has other things to occupy his time, apart from his leatherworking hobby.  Some of the surviving alliance population had made their way to various Horde towns and cities, for protection and survival during the harsher seasons.  As long as they came unarmed and swore allegiance they were allowed to stay, and after a year’s probation were given full rights.  There were still slaves held for various reasons – some because they were political prisoners or the families of such, or because they’d been gifted to prominent Horde members in reward for services.  In time, Garrosh suspects even those will be freed, or their children will be. Except for one.  Garrosh has never been one for personal possessions, for the clutter that others fill their lives with.  But his slave will be his for as long as he lives.  For as long, perhaps, as they both live.  Certain possessions he will not part with.

All the peoples of Azeroth are beginning to blend into a unified force, although there will always be some dissidents and rebels, some who will always hate orcs and never accept the Horde or the way the world is now.  Such hatreds will take generations to fade away.  But Varian is an excellent mediator for those who decide to join the Horde.  Most of them knew him and respected him, and Garrosh uses him more and more to take part in discussions, to explain Garrosh’s rules and terms and judge if they would be a problem, or if they are potentially useful.  The Horde gains many valuable trades and skills that way, and new small towns have sprung up around Orgrimmar across the plains of Durotan and into the Barrens as farms and manufacturing markets were formed. 

Varian begins to snore.  It’s one thing guaranteed to annoy him, because the man snorts as loud as a bull kodo in heat.  He shoves Varian’s shoulder, trying to make him turn onto his belly.  “Quiet, noisy!”

Varian turns onto his stomach with a grunt of annoyance, pushing Garrosh’s hand away.  “And here I’d been thinking how useful you’d become, and how obedient.”  He grips the nearest arm and blue eyes slide open to glare at him as Varian twists aside.  The grip firms as Garrosh snorts and bares his teeth.  “Don’t glare at me, slave.  You know I don’t handle glares well in the mornings.”  He drops his papers over the side of the bed and slides over the top of Varian, grabs the other arm and holds him down.  He’ll always be larger, stronger and heavier than the man but that doesn’t stop Varian from going for those spots on his body that aren’t quite so strong.  A knee rises to strike at his groin and things get a great deal more noisy and combative from there. It takes a while, some sweat and curses, a few bites and gouges but eventually Garrosh subdues and mounts him and it’s as good as it’s always been.  And he even manages to stroke Varian to his own arousal and feel him shudder and come in a pleasure he muffles with his hand over his mouth.  There is a satisfaction in that, too.

Yet Varian doesn’t seem all that upset by the whole thing.  Lately, since that damned black whelp had disturbed their peace, he’d changed.  Immediately afterwards he’d been depressed, as if he’d lost the spark that made and kept him strong.  It had come back eventually, slowly, yet even now Garrosh would see an occasional unfocused sadness lurking in those sky-coloured eyes.  That he’d grown so accustomed to Varian that he was able to read him that well would once have worried him.  Now he was just pleased he could read the man almost as well as he suspects Varian reads him.

They rise eventually and head for the washroom to bathe and dress for the day.  They are sitting down together for breakfast when Eitrigg interrupts them with a message.  It has to be important; the old orc knows how his Warchief dislikes having his meals interrupted.  “My apologies, Warchief,” Eitrigg says as he salutes and steps forward to place a scroll on the table.  “This came in just now and I felt you should see it straight away.  It comes,” he said, eyes bright with interest, “from Dalaran.”

That made both Garrosh and Varian pause.  Dalaran had been out of contact with the rest of the world since the final war with the Alliance.  Garrosh wipes his hands on a towel and tales the scroll, noting the Kirin Tor wax seal with a grunt.  “Not a word from them damned mages for years, and suddenly they send a note?”  He snaps the waxed ribbon with his table knife and rolls it out, propping it open with cups.  “Well, well.  Imagine that.”  He turns to look at a very curious Varian.  “Guess who wants to visit?”

“Who?”

“Khadgar.”

 

Mages didn’t need to fly or ride in like normal people and their habit of ‘porting into places could be alarming as it was loud.  Khadgar’s arrival involved a sudden rush of air outside the entrance to the Hold, accompanied by a flash of white light.  And then he is standing there, looking around with wide-eyed interest.

Garrosh, Varian and a number of his guards are waiting by the entrance, and Garrosh looks at the mage.. _no, Archmage, silly titles_ …and sees that he’s changed very little.  As always, Khadgar didn’t wear typical mage robes but dressed in comfortable pants, boots, shirt and vest, holding his large staff in his right hand.  He stepped out of the fading swirl of dust and light and dipped his head briefly towards Garrosh.

“Good day Warchief.  Thank you for agreeing to see me.”  Garrosh sees him flick a glance towards a silent Varian.  “Varian, I hope you are well.”

Varian nods, his hands tucked behind his back  “As well as I can be.  No thanks to you and the rest of the damned Kirin Tor.”

Garrosh recognises that tone.  He speaks without turning in a tone he knows Varian will recognise.  “Varian….”  He gestures to the door.  “Come inside.  And yes, you have my word for your safety, as long as you behave.”

Khadgar’s mouth quirked into a small smile as he followed Garrosh towards the door.  “Of course.  As long as YOU behave…”

Khadgar walks beside Garrosh into the Hold and stops before the Throne as Garrosh takes his place there, Varian standing on the lower step and behind him.  He leans forward, eyes narrowed.

“After all this time, after we hear nothing of the Kirin Tor or from anyone in Dalaran for years, and now you message me?  For what reason?”

“Our decision to remain neutral to the conflict was not a unanimous one.  Be that as it may, we are contacting you now because of a threat to the entire world which cannot be ignored by anyone.”  Khadgar glances briefly at Varian, then back to Garrosh.  “We believe the Burning Legion is returning to Azeroth.  And not just at some unspecified future date, but very soon.  If it has not already started.”

Garrosh catches sight of Varian’s abrupt movement from the corner of his eye.  He turns to see Varian standing rigidly upright, hands clenched, his face pale.  And in that moment Garrosh realises something.  “You knew?”

Varian turns to him, eyes wide and moist.  “Wrathion told me.”

“And you said nothing to me?  What else did he tell you?”

Shaking his head, Varian turns to stare at Khadgar.  “You let us die, mage.  You and all those Kirin Tor sitting up there in your splendid towers.  You let the Alliance die and did nothing!  You disgust me!”

Garrosh realises Varian is moments away from a killing fury and he reaches out and grabs the man’s arm in a harsh grip.  “Stop!  Don’t force me to chain you.  Restrain yourself!”  He feels the tension in Varian’s body, the ripple of muscles as he teeters between rage and control.  But slowly the violence subsides, if not the anger behind it.  “Go to my rooms, we will speak on this later.  Now - go!”

Varian shakes himself free and walks forward, past Khadgar and out to the stairs leading up.  Garrosh waits until he’s gone from view then turns back to the mage.  “He does, perhaps, have reason for his anger.  The Kirin Tor seems happy to stand back and let others do the fighting.”

“Yes, I appreciate his pain, and his reasons.  However, I am not the only mage in Dalaran, my word alone could not sway them.  As a group we could do little either way.  And had we interfered on his behalf you might well have attacked Dalaran and we’d have been destroyed for nothing.”  Khadgar’s eyes look to Garrosh but they are unfocused, as if he’s seeing something beyond the present.  “I regret that Varian dislikes me.  We were friends.  Perhaps we may be again one day.  But for now,” he finishes, eyes snapping back into focus, “we face a threat even greater than own conflicts.  If the Burning Legion invades again, they may well do so in greater strength than before, given their previous experiences.  The fate of the entire world lies in your hands, Warchief.”

The thought of the Burning Legion doesn’t worry Garrosh.  In fact, joy fires in his heart and he leans forward, bearing his teeth at the thought of such a mighty conflict.  “Let them come.  Azeroth will be ready for them.”  He stands, grabbing Gorehowl and lifting it above his head.  “The Horde will destroy them, once and for all!”


	7. Year 6:  for Azeroth

_He looks up into a dirty sky and sees it through a red haze of pain.  How can anyone live with this much pain, Varian thinks as he coughs, tasting the blood on his lips.  He'd fallen back at some moment that he didn't recall, didn’t even remember how much hitting the ground must have hurt and as he looks up and tries to focus he sees an orc looming over him.  But it isn't Garrosh…its something malign…and he's smiling…_

Not for one moment, from his first sight of the Legion's forces, did Garrosh doubt his eventual victory.  Even after dire need had forced an unwilling retreat upon him, he did not doubt.

The Azerothian forces had landed on the Broken Isles from two directions; Varian led the assault on the eastern side of what had become known as the Broken Shore while Garrosh attacked the western side.  Varian's forces consisted of the gathered remains of the original Alliance races, all of whom had sworn allegiance to the Horde and served as an allied corp.  Mostly dwarven, there were smaller numbers of human, worgen, night elves and gnomes.  Very few draenei had survived and most of those served behind the lines providing support.  They had arrived on a squadron of large bombers that had swept in over the big structure known as the Tomb of Sargeras – a Tomb that apparently Khadgar had failed to enter in time to stop Gul'dan from activating it– and had dropped waves of bombs onto the demons below.  Forced to withdraw by flights of demonic creatures, they'd descended to land their passengers on the hilltop above the open plain before the Tomb.

Garrosh had led his own forces through to the same position after his airship had been struck and forced down onto the western beach.  The rest of his fleet had successfully landed and the main bulk of his army arrived at the hill just before Varian's arrival.

The sight that met them both would have daunted a lesser being.  Massive packs of demons spewed from the swirling entry to the Tomb, and even Garrosh's determined attack had made little impact.  It was more than just an incursion, it was an invasion in full force and the troops he'd bought just hadn't been enough in the face of that.  He'd called for a retreat at last, ordering the survivors back, hating to issue the orders, loathing the sound of the horn signals saying _run away, you lose_ …

And as he'd turned to look for Varian, he'd seen the sword thrust that cut into the man's body, had seen him fall and heard cruel laughter echo the fury that exploded in his chest.

 

_Even for an orc, this one is ugly.  He is practically drooling with pleasure as he stomps forward to bend over Varian._

_"How pitifully sad," the warlock says in a burbling, grating laugh.  "Your kingdom destroyed, your city shattered, enslaved by an orc, and now killed by another.  Why have you not already died of your shame, Varian Wrynn?"_

_If he's actually expecting an answer, Varian thinks numbly that he's going to be disappointed; Varian can barely breath and the light is fading in and out to a rhythm matching the pain.  He sees the orc lift his hand, sees the sphere of energy form around his fist and then…he hears a familiar furious roar._

_”Mak'gora, you bastard!"_

_The orc stops, surprised, and Varian sees him glaring, eyes narrowed, across the top of Varian's body.  "Garrosh Hellscream.  Do you come to die as well?"_

_"No, I come to see you die, cowardly offspring of a mongrel line of arse lickers!"_

_It's such a Garrosh sort of thing to do that Varian starts to laugh, except that hurts and he coughs, tastes more blood, and just concentrates on breathing.  He wants to watch, he really does, because whatever happens it will be something special but finally he cannot hang on to awareness any longer and the dark finally slides in and takes away the pain -- - -_

 

The most surprising thing about waking is…waking. 

Varian realises he is looking up – again – but this time there is much less pain and the view is familiar. 

_How did I get back to Orgrimmar?  How am I alive to get back to Orgrimmar?_

It's a puzzle that he's attempting to solve when Anduin's face comes into view.  He concentrates, realises that Anduin looks tired, and that his healer robes are stained with blood.  He takes in a deeper breath to speak, tries to move, pain lances through him and he feels his son's hand gently pressing down on his shoulder.

"No, don't move, you will undo all my good work.  Just rest please."

There's something odd about Anduin's voice, about his closed expression and Varian looked around the room.  There's no sign of Garrosh, nothing of his, no weaponry, no armour…

"Where is he?"

Anduin straightens and rubs a hand across his forehead, smearing it with blood.  "He.."

"Is he dead?"  Oddly, the idea of it isn't as pleasing as it once would have been.  Anduin shrugs.

"We don't know.  A group of your dwarven sappers managed to get you back to the main force and onto a bomber but the last thing they saw was the Warchief being dragged away by demons.  We don't know if he was dead or alive.  Though it seems unlikely they would have bothered moving him if he were dead."

Even as Varian is considering this, the door is pushed open as Malkorok stomps into the room.  Varian's stomach clenches at the look of intense satisfaction on the orc's ugly face.  "Well," he growls, hands on his hips, "you survived again, dog.  But there's no Hellscream to protect you now." He smiles and runs his tongue over his fangs.  "I've been looking forward to this."

Malkorok grabs Varian by the hair and pulls him up, then he is dragged across the bed and onto the floor.  Varian can't control the cry of pain as his chest shudders and the world spins.  He hears Anduin move, tries to speak but can't seem to get enough air.  He hears a loud smack and a cry.

"Get out of the way, pup.  He's mine now, I'll treat him how I like."  Pressure impacts on his stomach, he tries to struggle upright, fights through the agony to resist.  "Get used to the pain, dog, it's all you'll know till you die."

"I don't think so.  Release him."

The grip on his hair doesn’t loosen but Malkorok stops shaking him and turns.  The world seems to still, as if the earth beneath them had settled and steadied and Varian finds himself able to focus.  He lifts his head and there is a big figure standing inside the doorway.  At first, he thinks it's Garrosh but then his eyesight fully clears and he recognises Thrall.

 _Go'el.  That's his orcish name.  Light, I'd forgotten how big he is._   Malkorok doesn’t seem all that impressed.

"What hole in the ground did you crawl out of, Thrall."  The way he sneers through the word reeks of insult and the big shaman's eyes narrow as the air around them shudders.

"I want you to listen to me.  Very carefully.  You will obey me, or you will die.  Those are your two alternatives.  And no, don't even think about challenging me because you aren’t worth being honoured by a mak'gora.  I'll just kill you where you stand."  He takes a step into the room, then another; Malkorok lets Varian's hair go and straightens but still steps backwards as Varian shudders and gropes for the bedframe to keep himself standing.

"You speak like a warchief," Malkorok snarls, feral eyes narrowed.  "I don't recall anyone making you such."

"I was the Warchief of the Horde and until we recover Garrosh or another is chosen, I am again.  Now get out and do your job, whatever it is."  The tone is dismissive, insulting and Varian holds steady, expecting violence.  Malkorok seems inclined to it as well, then rolls his shoulders and shrugs.

"Fine.  We'll see what happens, maybe you'll find not everyone agrees with you."  He spits at the floor in disgust but he doesn’t take his eyes off Go'el as he pushes his way through the door and away. 

Things get a little confused then; Varian sways, feeling shamefully weak and the next thing he knows he is on his back on the bed and Go'el is wrapping a new bandage around his chest, smoothing the soft, wide cloth with his huge hands and Varian feels as if rain had just fallen in the room – the air has a clean freshness to it and his tortured skin is remarkably painless.  _He's a shaman_ , he remembers after a dazed moment but his mind clears quickly then and he looks about.

"Anduin?"

"I sent him away to rest, he was very tired.  There," Go'el says, tucking the end of the bandage in place and sitting back to view it, "does that feel better?  Not too tight?"

"No, it's fine." He tries to think of the last time he saw Go'el.  Years ago, certainly well before the End.  "You never…you didn't get involved.  In the war."

"No, I didn't, to my shame.  I was quite a long distance away, dealing with problems in Outlands, when I heard of Garrosh's attacks.  By the time I returned there was little I could do to change anything, and interfering seemed to me a pointless exercise.  I would only have caused upheaval during an already chaotic time."  The big orc sighed and sat back, and cricked his knuckles and Varian remembered that he was no longer young.  "I saved as many as I could – there are quite a few draenei living back on Outlands in the enclaves there.  It's not ideal but its better than nothing.  Since that time I've been doing my best to quietly put together families and groups for healing and recovery.  But when I heard about the Legion…and Gul'dan…"

"Gul'dan!  That was Gul'dan?  How is that possible?"   Varian carefully props himself against the headboard.  "I have a pretty clear memory of being told as a child that Gul'dan had died.  Something to do with the Tomb?"

"Yes, in this time of ours he should be dead.  I came back when I sensed a…"  Go'el pauses, obviously searching for the words.  "…it was like a shuddering in the earth beneath me, very deeply, as if Azeroth herself had flinched in pain.  Very soon thereafter I received a message from the Golden Dragonflight to attend them in the Caverns of Time.  They told me that they had perceived an interference in the timeflow but had been unable to correct it."  Go'el's blue eyes lose their focus and he sits very still, as if sensing the world around him.  "They studied it, found that a very small portal had been opened at the location of the old portal gates in the Blasted Lands.  Someone there had managed to trigger it just enough for a power of the Legion to link through to that person.  We believe it is a human woman, a warlock, and she went to the Tomb of Sargeras and, with the power and knowledge of her Legion Master, was able to open the Tomb and activate a major portal there."

"A human?"  A sense of horror twists along Varian's nerves.  "A human did this?"

"So it seems.  I don't judge without information, there could be reasons for the betrayal.  But in any case, it seems that the portal not only connected the Tomb through space, but through time as well, deliberately or not I have no way of knowing.  It seems to have linked to itself at the time the last attempt was made and Gul'dan came through as the full connection was activated.  So rather than dying as he should, he is now here, and happily serving the Legion.  It was this twisting of time that the dragons had sensed."  Go'el normally calm features slide into a snarl.  "A traitor, an orc serving the most destructive force in the cosmos, all for whatever power he can gain from it.  A fool, as well."

"And they have Garrosh now as well."  He looks across into a pair of watchful, curious eyes.  "I can see you are wondering how I feel about that.  It's…complicated."

"I can imagine it would be, given what you have suffered at his hands.  It would be perfectly understandable if you were pleased to see him dead and gone, or being tortured by Gul'dan.  Are you, pleased?"

 _Am I pleased?_   He'd not had time to concentrate on his feelings about Garrosh lately.  There had always been reasons for acceptance, for surrendering his choices.  Hatred had faded but that was almost like some natural process of time and routine.  It was difficult to maintain anger in the face of day-to-day life.  He should be pleased.  He should wish Garrosh a universe of pain for the death of his kingdom.  Somehow the hatred had been watered down to the point where it was more an idea than a fact.

"I should be, but frankly my feelings at this moment aren't relevant.  The fact is that Azeroth needs Garrosh.  He is a violent, aggressive and frequently vicious creature but he is a creature of this world.  He will fight to defend his home from an invader and the Horde follow him without question, with total devotion.  We need him."

"That wasn't easy to say, I suspect."  Go'el's voice is a soft, deep rumble and Varian shrugs, ignoring the small flash of pain.

"My life has rarely been easy but my path is clear.  I fought for my people and failed.  I will not fail Azeroth even if it means fighting to the death for Garrosh Hellscream."  Varian's lips twist into a half smile.  "Just don't let him know I said that. "


	8. Year 6:  The Wolf's Paw

At first sight, the human woman doesn’t look all that dangerous.  It's hard to be sure since she is covered in a black robe, hooded and gloved and she moves with a sort of graceful glide and he thinks that she must be thin beneath the robe, since its belted tightly to a very slender waist.  But when she stops before him and slowly pulls the hood of her robe back and lets it drop, he realises that she is probably the most dangerous thing he's ever seen in his life of meeting many dangerous things.

She smiles up at him – she's relatively tiny, almost fragile – and wipes a strand of silver hair from her face.  Her hair is cut very short, her face is white skin pulled over taut bones and her eyes are black pools fringed in green.  She might have been attractive once, as humans judge such things.  Now she is a blade, a deadly weapon, and she is pointed at his heart.

"When they told me you had been taken, I felt better than I have in a very long time."  Her voice is a dry whisper but he hears it clearly enough.  "I have no real hopes of anything in life anymore.  Plans yes, hopes no.  But you are a gift.  An unexpected pleasure I have been given."  She is suddenly standing very close to him where he is set against a wall, his arms secured by chains.  She lifts the hand she used to brush her hair aside and lays it on his naked chest.  Its feverishly hot, as if she is burning from the inside out.  "I'm allowed to kill you, Warchief of the Horde.  However I want, however long I want it to last, I am permitted to take your life.  I plan to do so in small increments.  A little here, a little there, until there's hardly anything left of you at all."

She steps back and he shifts his attention to his surroundings.  Whatever the place is, it’s a wreck.  There are shattered walls, a fallen ceiling and parts of the roof hanging down, and everything is burned and broken.  Some sort of house, he thinks but it’s a shell now full of ash and litter and burned things.   Apart from a single demon standing by an opening in the broken remains of wall, he and the human woman are alone.  She sighs, watching him.

"So, do you like my home?  It was home, once.  Before your orcs came and set fire to it.  My children were inside and they burned to death, and when my husband tried to fight his way inside to rescue them, orcs gutted him like a pig and he died listening to the screams of his dying children."  She steps back, her robe sending up a small cloud of black dust.  "I should have died to, they thought they'd killed me.  I pretended to be dead, lying underneath my father's body."  She pauses, head to one side.  "I think perhaps I did die then, in retrospect.  When only hatred keeps you going, how real can life be?"

Garrosh doesn’t speak because there doesn’t seem to be anything to say.  He had issued orders to his troops that unarmed civilians were to be spared if they didn’t resist, but he knows that those orders had only been followed within the range of his direct control.  There had been too much tainted history humans and orcs shared for the war to be anything but harsh.  He didn't like it, didn’t approve of such dishonourable acts but there was no way to know who did it and who was innocent.  But this woman wouldn’t accept any apology he might wish to make, so he makes none, just stares at her and waits for what would come.

She doesn’t appear surprised by his silence but its difficult to tell.  Her face is a mask of bitter control, only her eyes shine with fury and pain.  "And this is how it will be," she continues in a harsh whisper as she slides a large dagger from a sheath on her hip.  "I will undo you, piece by piece.  I will take away parts of you until there is just a body and a head and finally I will gut you and let you watch your entrails spill out around you and then I will let you die, in your own good time."  She leans forward slightly and runs the edge of the blade across his chest.  Not deep, it makes only a shadow cut but the skin parts like cloth under a tailor's scissors and blood spills out to flow in small streams down to his stomach.  She bends closer and sniffs, with her eyes closed.

"Orcs smell like pigs.  Only to be expected, I suppose, given what you enjoy.  Eating pigs, living like pigs.  When I butcher you, I hope you'll do me the courtesy of squealing like one."  She raises the knife again but is interrupted by the entry of a demon, a tall eredar who bends his head in a brief bow.

"Lady Dread, Gul'dan orders your attendance."

She straightens slowly, her nose crinkling in distaste.  "Another orc.  Sadly not one I can butcher quite so easily.  Very well, have the mage prepare a portal."  She curls her lips into something like a smile that never reaches her eyes.  "This shouldn’t take long, then we'll begin."

And then she moves, far faster than Garrosh had seen any human move, and he curses and spits in shock as she buries the dagger hilt-deep into his right thigh.  "Look after that for me, will you?"  She smiles, pats his shaking leg, and leaves.

As soon as he is left alone, Garrosh takes stock of himself, to judge his fitness.

The leg hurts, there's no denying that – the blade had missed bone and buried itself in the big muscle and any movement hurt like hell.  But it isn't bleeding badly yet, though it will when it is pulled out.  As for the rest, he'd been knocked unconscious by a blow during the fight on the Broken Isles and although he bore a number of wounds and damage, none are serious, and none will slow him down.  He hadn't seen Varian since his waking and has no idea if the man had survived but there is no time then to worry about that.  First, he must escape, everything else will follow in time.

As he'd been standing listening to her, he'd also been unobtrusively flexing his arms, making it appear he was struggling in his bonds.  In fact, he'd been testing the chains.  Each wrist had a broad steel bracelet wrapped around it but the circles of metal were solid, welded together and obviously meant to be permanent.  They were connected to chains that were fixed to rings driven into the remains of the house's stone fireplace.  When he'd twisted his right arm he'd felt a tiny amount of give in the ring.  Not a lot, but perhaps enough and he grabs the chain in his fists and goes to work, twisting and pulling it with all the strength of his arm, shoulder and chest.  Slowly, in small increments, the buried ring begins to slip.  With a final heave, he reefs it out of the wall.

The stone cracks as it comes loose and he freezes, listening…but nothing outside seems to have heard the small sound and he turns his attention to the left binding.

This one doesn’t budge.  The right ring was partly set in mortar between the stones but the left is deeply set into a large chunk of granite and remains frustratingly fixed in place, despite all his efforts.  Damp with sweat and muttering curses, he leans back against the stone and tries to come up with an idea. 

_Use the dagger and dig it out.  Right, that will take quite a few days.  Doubt I have days.  Use it on a demon if they come in.  Yes, I can see that working._

He glares at the offending arm.  Just the one metal band keeping him from getting away, one stupid piece of metal wrapped around a stupid, useless hand…

When the idea first comes to him, he thrusts it aside, but it persists.  _A hand.  Without the hand, the bracelet and chain would slide off.  That's all that it would take.  Just cut off my hand.  Can I do that?  Can I cut off my own hand?_

A memory pops up, of a young wolf he'd found with its leg caught in a hunter's trap.  The wolf was crying and whining as it stubbornly chewed at its own leg to bite its way free of the iron jaws.  It knew it would die there if it didn't.  And if a wolf could do that, could show that courage and that determination, then how could he be any less brave?

Even so, it took a few more pointless dragging and pulling of the chain before he knew he had no alternative.  Stay and die, or bite his way clear of the trap.  There was no other alternative.

Garrosh pulls off his belt and shoves it in his mouth, bites down and pulls out the dagger.  The pained curse is muffled by the leather and he takes the belt from his mouth and uses the dagger dip to dig extra holes further down the belt's length.  With the dagger in his mouth he wraps the belt around his left arm above the wrist and tightens it to the point of discomfit.  Then, with a prayer to whatever deities might be watching, he sets to work.

It’s the most dreadful thing he'd ever had to do but he works with the determination of a warrior and with the experience of a hunter, knowing the precise place to cut to sever the limb in the quickest time.  The pain is excruciating but he keeps silent though his body trembles and shudders.  When the hand finally drops away he tightens the belt a notch more and slumps backwards, shaking.

But he knows he can't relax, can't stop.  Shock will set in soon and although the belt has reduced the blood loss it isn’t entirely stopping it and he has only a short time to get away before he loses consciousness.  He is used to pain, has known it all his life and he deals with as he always has, stubbornly determined it will not overcome him.  Pain tells him he is alive, and while he is alive, he fights.

He looks down at the hand and, as an afterthought, picks it up and places it, free of its confining bracelet, on the stained table in the middle of the room. Then he turns and stumbled out through a shattered section of wall in the opposite direction the demons had gone. 

There are a number of peculiar looking flying mounts tethered among some nearby trees, batlike and black and green and they hiss at him as he approaches.  He smacks the nearest one in the head to get its attention then drags himself onto the saddle on its back and takes hold of the reins.  It tries to dislodge him but a few smacks and punches enforce its obedience, and with a final kick of his heels into its side, he launches it into the sky.

Garrosh goads the bat thing into high speed and takes a quick look around.  He recognises the area, its not that far from the ruins of Stormwind and he turns the bat that way and makes for the low clouds to lose any followers.  Then he just hangs on grimly as waves of darkness sweep in front of his eyes. 

He remembers little of his landing in the small village in the shadow of Stormwind's shattered walls.  He remembers falling, landing on his damaged arm and shouting in pain, the smell of blood, the hands that pulled him up, being carried somewhere but after that the light diminishes down to a small point and then disappears, and takes memory and pain and thought with it.


	9. Year 6 & 7: Interlude/Year 25:  Last Orders/Going Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning, fair reader...sad things happening.

Year 6 and 7:  Interlude

It takes time.

Varian's healing is slow – he is no longer the young, fit warrior he once was.  Even after months when outwardly all he has to show is an impressive pair of scars, front and back, the deep ache is still there.  He thinks it will always be there no matter how the healers work on it.  It's just another burden to bear.

Garrosh likewise heals slowly.  There was a great blood loss to recover from that almost took him.  That, and the infection from his radical personal amputation.   And even when he is recovered Varian catches him glaring at the arm now and then, as if surprised the hand isn't there any longer.  Now and then he talks of how he can feel it, feel the ghostly fingers move and how clumsy that makes him, how unbalanced.   Yet he finds ways to adapt, as they all must.  Special tools, special weapons he can attach to his arm and in the end nothing stops an orc determined to remain an orc.

The battle against the legion is long and bloody.  They gain allies on the Broken Isles who eventually join the Horde to fight for Azeroth.  The Taurens greet and assist their Highmountain cousins and thing went from there, with more and more races taking part to defend their world and Illidan and his Demon Hunters were woken and saved.  And with Go'el's reinvolvement, many of the older races joined forces as well, with the Prophet Velen returning from Outlands with his surviving Draenei.  He set to work repairing the Exodar and with the help of both goblin and gnomish engineers, the ship was made ready to fly in a very short time.

They took the fight to Argus and with the appearance of the Xenedar, Turalyon and the forces of the Armies of Light tipped the balance against the Legion.  Eventually Antorus was breached, Sargeras' forces defeated and the great dark Titan himself imprisoned under Illidan's control.

But still, it was a close thing.  Thousands died and only the combined will and strength of Garrosh, Varian and those under their command, managed to see it through.

Finally, after all the death and pain and loss, Azeroth healed, and had peace.

Year 25:  Last Orders

There is a place that Varian particularly likes sitting, on those days when Durotar's weather is kind.

One fine autumn day he decides to go there, as he is feeling oddly tired and the idea of rest out beyond the city walls is appealing.  He visits the Hold kitchens, packs a bag of food and drink and heads for the stables near the western city wall.

The grey gelding has its head over the box door and sees him coming.  He'd named it Pacer for its smooth flowing gaits and he thought it might be a descendant of his old Champion; there was a familiar look about its head and legs though it was a darker grey than his old warhorse.  Once he's fed Pacer his apple, he saddles him and leads him towards the back city gate.

Garrosh is at work in his smith hammering away at something and he looks up at the sound of shod hooves on the cobbles.  "Where are you off to, I thought you had bookwork to do today?"

"I'm bored with that, thought I'd go out and sit by my tree."

"Hmmph."  The big orc walks across to Pacer and runs a hand down the horse's legs, and the gentle gelding affably lifts its hoof for inspection.  "This shoe will need replacing soon.  Don't go riding far with it as it is."

"Yes, master."

The tone is amiable with a hint of humour and Garrosh straightens and steps around the horse to take Varian's arm.  Big fingers stroke over the skin, as knowing in their touch as they had been on the gelding's legs.  "You do look tired.  You haven't slept well lately.  Should I ask Go'el…?"

"No, I'm fine."  He lets himself be pulled closer until he's resting against Garrosh's chest.  When he closes his eyes, he can hear the steady, deep throb of the orc's heart beneath his ear.  "It's age, that's all.  Age comes to us all eventually."

The hand strokes his head and eventually he pulls back, looking up in amber eyes that study him with their usual intent.  He punches Garrosh in the chest as he steps away.  "I'll be home before dark."

"See that you are.  And take Tormon with you, that lazy old orc needs the exercise."

There is a hill overlooking the Southfury River near the border with Azshara.  The hill is not so high that he can't walk it alone, and he often did, down to the water's edge to swim and fish, and cool off in the summer.  As the years had passed the walking becomes more difficult so he will mostly just sit in the shade of a tree planted there for his use, his legs propped up, with the food and apple ale cooling in an ice-filled bag and books on a table beside him.

His minds drifts as he dozes, lulled by the buzzing of insects in the long grass and the bird calls.  Off in the distance he can hear the croaking growl of a lone plains lion; not close enough to be a concern, and his personal guard would deal with it if it did draw near.  The old orc is as content to rest his joints as Varian, though duty forces him to keep his ears perked for any sign of danger.

There is little danger now in the world to worry either of them.  Peace broke out across the world slowly, like a drifting mist of change as peoples settled to live and grow and prosper.  Orcs, who had once, far back in their past, been peaceful people living together on Draenor, found once more that peace was the one honorable enemy they could surrender their lives to.  Their children were born into a world without conflict, without war.

Varian takes well-worn paper from his jacket pocket and opens it, tilting the much-cursed reading glasses down his nose to read the familiar words.  The letter is the latest from Anduin, a long rambling note filling in his father on life in his far off home.  Anduin and his wife had gone back to Eastern and settled their family beside Lake Everstill, rebuilding Lakeshire into a prosperous farming community.  What had started out as Anduin, his wife and a small group of guardians was now a community of nearly three hundred people of all races, and other towns had sprung to life along the trading routes around it. 

Anduin himself was both a father and a grandfather.  Their first child, a daughter named Rosa, had herself married at a young age and had recently given birth to her second child.  How odd it is to think of Anduin as both father and grandfather – and even odder to think of himself as a great grandfather, when he once thought the family name would die with him, back in those terrible times twenty five years before.  Anduin has four children, all doing well, and it seems the line of Wrynn will carry on despite everything the world and destiny might see fit to throw at it.

He feels something that had been growing in him for some time now – a pain deep in his middle, a hollow sense of breathless tension and his heart thuds hugely like a rapid beast that's trying to escape from his chest.  The pain this time is bad and he drops the letter, tries to stand but he can't seem to move.  He makes some sort of sound and the guard is there suddenly and the world clicks by in broken scenes separated by darkness.

 

Garrosh is testing a new weapon for his left hand when he sees Tormon running for him and he knows.  It's Varian's guard and the tension in that old orc face is enough to alert him.

"Where is he?"

"In your quarters, Overlord.  It's bad, I think."

Garrosh grunts, drops the weapon and lopes off towards the hold.  He is more breathless than he likes when he makes the top of the stairs and shoves through into a room full of too many people.  Go'el is there, kneeling next to the bed and even Garrosh can sense the healing the shaman is poring into Varian.  But he ignores the orc and sits on the edge of the bed and looks down into Varian's pale, sweat-dampened face.  He can read the pain there, see the laboured breathing, the shuddering muscles.  "What have you done to yourself?"

Varian licks his lips, takes a broken breath.  "Too…much.  Listen.."

"I am listening.  You just keep breathing.  Do you hear me?  That's an order.  Keep breathing."

He watches as Varian's mouth quirks into a small smile.  "Some..things…can't…order."  One hand latches onto his good arm.  "Tell Anduin…love him."

"Doubt I need to tell him that.  If you want to, you can tell him."  He knows he is talking nonsense, he isn't sure what he is saying, beyond trying to push back the inevitable by pure will alone.  "I'll get him here, you just wait…"

"Can't wait.  Want to."  The blue eyes lose their focus as Varian seems to be looking somewhere else.  "Want to see…" And there is the smile again, like a man who has seen something dear.  "..so beautiful..white walls, shining in the sun…"  It's a whisper now, and the eyelids droop.  "…Stormwind…"

Garrosh feels the big body shudder, the hand clamps on his arm, then lets go.  And then he is gone.

The room is totally silent as time itself seems to pause.  Then Garrosh bends forward and pulls the limp body to him, lifts his head and howls.  It’s a sound of pain and rage and loss.  And outside the wolves of Orgrimmar hear him and their voices are raised as they respond to his grief.  Orgrimmar mourns.

He sits there for a long time holding Varian until the others are gone and they are alone.  Then he finally lowers the man he'd owned for twenty five years to the bed, reaches out and snaps the leather collar around his neck and pulls it off, and wraps it around his own arm.  He smooths back the silver-streaked black hair from the still face and nods.  He can't speak but he doesn’t need to.  They spoke with their bodies and their lives and one of those lives was ended now, so there is nothing more to say.

 

Year 25:  Going Home

The tomb had been built on a flat plateau that jutted out into the harbour, facing the western horizon.  It was simple and clean, built on a raised bed of white stone, made of marble taken from the remains of the Palace walls.  The stone segments had been cleaned till they gleamed, reflecting the sun as it heads towards the horizon.

A surprising number of people had turned up for the service, conducted by priests of the Light who blessed the tomb and mouthed other words that Anduin paid little attention to.  He stands in a place of honour next to the tomb, along with his wife and family.  As he looks out across the plateau to the city beyond, he cannot help remembering it in its better days.  Now only a shell remains, the walls and buildings overgrown with vines and weeds so that one can hardly tell that a city had been there once.  He'd never returned to it because the sight would have been too depressing, and it had seemed better to remember it as it had been and not view its poor, shrouded body.

He glances across at Garrosh and his old Priest abilities tell him that the orc is in pain.  There's physical pain from a lifetime of injuries, but there's another, deeper pain as well.  It's loneliness, he finally realises.  Without Varian he is alone, with no mate, no children, only the power and position of being the Overlord of Azeroth, and no one to share that power with.  Despite everything, Varian had filled a need in Garrosh that even the orc hadn't recognised.  Life sometimes took the most unusual paths to fulfilment.

When the words were finished the others leave him to be alone there as the sun dips towards the horizon.  He places a hand on the cool, smooth stone and dips his head in salute.  Above him, a single flag catches the afternoon inshore breeze.  It's the only remaining Royal Stormwind standard in the world and it will fly forever over the tomb.

The last King of Stormwind has come home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the music that inspired me.
> 
> For you, Varian  
> https://youtu.be/AdHwFyesQwM


End file.
